


A Merry Little Hound

by literarypeachtea



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen, Sickfic, before episode: s02e04 dead stop, i told you malcolm was a big softie, in a way i suppose, or at least he is in my head, post-episode: s02e03 minefield, whatever.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literarypeachtea/pseuds/literarypeachtea
Summary: Or "How animal companionship can result in an expedient recovery from emotional and physical trauma."Takes place after "Minefield." Kind of a fluffy fic, I suppose, about Malcolm being asked (read: told) to take care of Porthos because he won't take care of himself otherwise.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 22





	1. I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I only write Enterprise fics about Porthos. I just miss my dog.

I should consider myself lucky, I suppose, thought Malcolm Reed, laying in a biobed in sick bay. Not even 100 years ago, an injury like this would have taken a person out of commission for at least a week before physical therapy was even an option. But still, being impaled by a spike from a Romulan mine doesn’t make one feel very lucky.  
The tactical officer glanced down at his bandaged thigh. Then again, at least he still had his leg — no “roast Reed” would be on Chef’s menu any time soon.  
Even after a day in sick bay, Malcolm felt like he was going stir crazy. But, Phlox had wanted to keep him under observation just a little bit longer, on the off chance that there were undetected pathogens on the spikes.  
He tapped impatiently at his PADD, bringing up the review of best practices in starship security he’d been working his way through. May as well be productive if I’m trapped here, he thought. Not that it was much different than what he read in his free time.  
The doors to sickbay slid open, Captain Jonathan Archer stepping through with Porthos at his heels. Malcolm sat up, feeling a twinge of pain in his leg.  
“How’s the patient doing today, Doc?” Archer asked, stopping beside Malcolm’s bed. Phlox looked up from his microscope, smiling.  
“I’m not seeing any signs of infection, and the additional scans have come back clear, so as well as one can be after taking a spike to the leg,” Phlox said, joining Archer. Porthos stood on his hind legs, placing his paws on the edge of the bed and sniffing at the bandage.  
“Wonderful. I don’t suppose you’ll be making me wear a cone, will you?” Malcolm asked, scratching behind the hound’s soft ears.  
“Oh, no,” Phlox replied, laughing. “Though you will have to take things slow for a while. And I’d like to start seeing you for physical therapy starting tomorrow.”  
Malcolm groaned inwardly. Take things slow? They’d just been through a minefield, sustained extensive damage to the ship, and were practically dead in the water until they could repair things. He should be working overtime ensuring that the weapons systems and security were in place should another ship come upon them and decide to attack.  
“With all due respect, doctor, I believe I’m going to be needed,” Malcolm began, before Archer interrupted him.  
“You know, lieutenant, the last thing we need to worry about now is you further damaging your leg. You won’t be useful on any away missions if you’ve got a permanent limp,” the captain said. Malcolm nodded begrudgingly. Far be it from him to argue with his superior.  
“In fact,” the captain continued, “With the damage to the ship, I’m going to be helping Trip with repairs. I was going to ask if you could look after Porthos for me.”  
“Sir?” It wasn’t that Malcolm didn’t like the dog, just that his job description did not include dog-sitting. Was this punishment for their conversation on the hull where he told the captain his style was too lax? That he shouldn’t ask for opinions? Malcolm’s pondering was cut short as Phlox clapped.  
“Ah, yes! Captain, an excellent idea. Research has shown that physical contact with companion animals lowers blood pressure and stress,” the Denobulan exclaimed, seemingly thrilled by the idea of an animal not in his menagerie being employed in a patient’s recovery. “Plus, with the canine’s short legs, taking him for walks shouldn’t be strenuous, but still provide physical activity.”  
Porthos, all paws returned to the floor, wagged his tail proudly, like he knew what the doctor was saying.  
Malcolm furrowed his brow at the doctor. “Sir, I don’t know — perhaps Ensign Sato is better suited to look after Porthos? She seems awfully fond of him.”  
“No, no,” Archer said, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t be able to stay in her quarters due to her roommate’s allergy.”  
Malcolm’s eyes about bugged out of his head. A dog? In his quarters? Seriously?  
“Malcolm, with all of the repairs needed for engineering, anything with the weapons systems will have to wait. I know you’re committed to your job, and I admire that, I truly do,” Archer began. “But a one-legged, burned out security officer will do me no good. So please, don’t make me confine you to your quarters.”  
Archer scooped up the small dog, and turned to leave.  
“Let me know what you decide once Dr. Phlox releases you,” the captain said. “And to be honest, this is as much for Porthos as it is for you. I don’t like the thought of my pal being alone all day.”  
Malcolm quirked an eyebrow. “Aye, sir.”  
***  
“All right, that hypospray should last for about, hmmmm, about 12 hours, so come back and see me in the morning, yes?” Phlox noted something on his PADD, and glanced over to his menagerie. “At that time, I’d like to try putting a Regulan bloodworm in your leg. It will help speed up the recovery.”  
Malcolm cringed at the prospect, but nodded. He stood, slightly unsteady, and slowly began to make his way toward the door.  
“Lieutenant Reed,” Phlox called, waiting until the man had slowly turned back around to face the doctor. “Consider taking Captain Archer up on the offer to look after his, uh, bugle. You’ve been through quite a traumatic experience, and it’s often beneficial to have companionship following those times. Humanoid or otherwise.”  
“Duly noted, doctor. Thank you,” Malcolm said shortly, making his way into the hall. He paused, considering whether to retire to his quarters or to stop by the mess hall. It was 2000 hours, and he was hungry. He’d eat, he decided, and then give Captain Archer his answer.  
Not that he was quite sure what his answer was, he thought as he entered the turbo lift and Archer’s words echoed in his head: “A one-legged, burned out security officer will do me no good.”  
Archer was right, of course, and the generations of military discipline hardwired into his personality were screaming at him to sit down and shut up, but that didn’t mean Malcolm had to be happy about the decision.  
Malcolm tapped the console, and made his way into the mess hall, perusing the selections before settling on a bowl of some sort of soup and a roll. He cast his eyes about the room, weighing his seating options. The analgesic numbed the pain when he was standing still, but when he put the leg to use, a dull throbbing was present. He’d had worse, but it wasn’t exactly desirable.  
Eventually, he noticed a familiar glint of blond.  
“Ya sure are cheery, Malcolm,” Trip remarked as the man eased himself into the chair. “How’s the leg?”  
Malcolm regarded the engineer sullenly.  
“The captain wants me to take care of his bloody beagle.”  
“Beg pardon?” Trip asked.  
“His dog. I’m stuck dog sitting while my leg heals,” Malcolm said in a clipped tone, ripping the roll in half with slightly more force than was necessary. “I’m the head of security for this ship! I shouldn’t be...taking care of an animal! That’s not under my purview.”  
“Well, ya could consider it a special security detail.”  
Trip was impressed he still had his eyebrows after the searing glare Malcolm fixed him with.  
“Ya know, I do see where the cap’n is coming from,” Trip began, scratching his chin. “We both know that if left alone, you’ll overdo it and end up busting your leg up worse than before.”  
“I’m wishing the spike had gone through my head right about now,” Malcolm muttered in between spoonfuls of soup.  
“That actually happened to a guy once,” Trip began. “In 19th century America. He was settin’ a blast for a railroad, and when he looked away for a second, his tamping iron set off a spark and BOOM —” The engineer paused to press the handle of his fork underneath the left side of his jaw. “Iron went right through his face and came out the top of his head. Poor bastard lived but was never the same after that, and we learned about the brain’s frontal lobes.”  
Malcolm squinted at Trip, equal parts disgusted and impressed.  
“And you know this fascinating tidbit how, exactly?”  
Trip shrugged. “Read about him in a comic book when I was little.”  
“You Americans and your comic books.”  
“I’m tellin’ ya, loaded with metaphor.”  
***  
The conversation with Trip had brightened Malcolm’s mood slightly. As he made his way back to his quarters, Malcolm began composing his schedule. If he tired the small dog out enough, he’d probably have plenty of time to work on the security proposal he’d started, and then by the time he was back to duty, he could implement it.  
How hard could taking care of a beagle be? The Reeds had owned a couple Maltese growing up — surprisingly, his allergy to dogs wasn’t quite as severe as his others — but they were mostly his mother and Madeline’s dogs. One of the few things Stuart and Malcolm agreed on was the ridiculousness of those animals. You could hardly call them dogs, he thought, a smile playing on his lips as he remembered their wall-eyed stares and propensity to bark at nothing.  
At least a beagle was a good, proper English dog.  
He glanced at his chronometer, ensuring he wouldn’t disturb Archer, and pressed the comm.  
“Lieutenant Reed to Captain Archer.”  
“Go ahead, lieutenant.”  
“Shall I pick up Porthos prior to my visit with Phlox at 0800?”  
Malcolm could hear the smile in the captain’s voice.  
“That works out just fine. Archer out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was talking with a friend, worried this concept might be too self-indulgent, but she reminded me that, at its core, fanfic is all about self-indulgence. Goddamnit, I just want Malcolm to take care of himself probably because I see a bit of myself in him.  
> Also, if anyone is interested in beta reading...shoot me a message. I'm open to constructive criticism.


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're squeamish about worms/leeches, skip to the first set of asterisks. I don't go into great detail, but, well... you knew there had to be a story Phlox and Reed's exchange at the beginning of Dead Stop about the bloodworms.  
> Thank you to ltwillbush for beta-reading and making sure I don't sound like too much of a prat. :)

Malcolm retrieved the beagle  —  and all of his  numerous  accoutrements  —  from Archer’s quarters the next morning. As the captain stuffed toys, kibble, treats, blankets and a bed into a large bag, Malcolm fought the urge to laugh. The dog was just traveling a few decks up, not backpacking across Europe for a month, he thought.

They’d dropped the bag off in his quarters, then headed to sickbay.

“Good morning, doctor,” Malcolm called out, finding the open area empty when he and Porthos arrived. 

“Just a moment,” came the faint reply from one of the back rooms. Porthos began sniffing around the area, stopping in front of one of the many tanks. Malcolm stiffly made his way over to the dog, who was intently staring at the glass, nose twitching. Though the tank had a lid, Malcolm could smell something too close to decomposition for comfort. It seemed to be emanating from the fat, slimy slugs that were lounging in a small dish of mud in the enclosure.

“Good nose, pup. I think that’s new,” he praised, wincing as he tried to crouch to give Porthos a pat on the head.

“Oh, yes, indeed it is! A few Orion wing-slugs,” Phlox explained, emerging from the back with a petri dish holding two worm-like creatures. “They’re quite useful for debriding wounds.”

“Lovely.” Malcolm straightened up, exhaling sharply. The painkiller had worn off now, and the dull throbbing had become a sharp pain. Phlox smiled sympathetically. 

“Let’s get your discomfort taken care of, and then we’ll try out some bloodworms!” He gleefully held up the dish. The tactical officer hobbled over to a biobed, managing to perch himself on the edge of it with some considerable effort. Porthos followed, watching as Phlox removed the dressing from the wound and scanned it with his medical tricorder.

“Still no infection, healing looks normal… good. And I see you’ve taken Captain Archer up on his offer,” Phlox said. After administering more painkillers, the doctor placed one of the Regulan bloodworms on Malcolm’s leg.

The worm immediately latched onto the wound. Then, everything happened at once, in what seemed like slow motion: Porthos, interested in the wiggling thing, leapt onto the bed, landing beside Malcolm. 

The glass tank that held the Orion wing-slugs shattered, sending Phlox racing over to scoop the slugs up.

And the bloodworm, seemingly startled by the dog, disappeared into Malcolm’s leg.

Things seemed to jump back to normal speed once Malcolm found his voice: “Phlox!”

The Denobulan looked up, in the process of dumping the slugs into a metal bowl. 

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“The worm is inside my leg.”

***

Despite an hour and a half of trying to lure the Regulan bloodworm out, Phlox ended up releasing Malcolm with the critter intact, assuring him it would come out “eventually.”

“This is your fault, you know,” the man told the dog. 

Porthos gave a short bark, and bounded down the hall ahead of him.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going? Porthos, come,” he commanded. The dog reluctantly backtracked, sitting beside Malcolm’s feet.

“You’re going back to my quarters,” Malcolm explained, not quite sure why he was telling the dog the plan. “Then I’m getting breakfast.”

Porthos stared up at him, the very definition of “puppy dog eyes.” Malcolm stared back, determined not to break. He wasn’t going to let the dog get the best of him. Not this early on.

Porthos tilted his head slightly, letting out a sad whine. How could a dog with an already sorrowful face manage to look even sadder? 

“Fine. You can come with me to the mess hall. But just this once,” he  sighed , his resolve crumbling. The beagle jumped up, tail wagging madly, and started running for the mess hall, turning around every few feet to make sure Malcolm was still  following . By the time Malcolm got to the door, he was impressed that Porthos was still visible, given how fast the dog seemed to be vibrating.

The door had barely opened when the dog squeezed through and had his nose glued to the ground, sniffing for any errant pieces of food. Malcolm looked around the hall, relieved it wasn’t filled with people. He had to admit, even with the worm in his leg, it was feeling a bit better — not aching so badly. Plate of pancakes in hand, he searched the room for the dog.

He caught a flash of white under a table at the same time as a peal of surprised laughter rang out. Apparently the dog had startled Ensign Hoshi Sato with a wet nose to the hand.

“Porthos, I told you to find an empty table,” Malcolm mock-chided the dog. 

“It’s OK, I needed a break from that Romulan grammar anyway,” Hoshi said, setting her PADD aside. “Trip told me you’re on special security detail.”

Malcolm scowled. “Is he going to tell everyone that?”

“Nah, just anyone who asks.”

“Wonderful,” he said as he began to spread peanut butter on his pancake. He became suddenly aware of a weight on his thigh, and looked down to see the dog, licking his chops at the smell of peanut butter. “No. Not for dogs.”

Hoshi smiled, taking a sip of her tea. It was a bit of a relief to see her friend a little less guarded.

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly, watching as he resolutely tried to ignore the beagle glued to his leg.

“I’m a bit sore,” he said, ignoring the exasperated look she gave him. “Nothing some sleep can’t fix.”

Knowing better than to push the topic, Hoshi stood up from her seat, placing a hand on his arm. “You know I’m here if you need me,” she reminded him. 

He took another bite of pancake to avoid speaking, only nodding in response. As she left the mess, he felt Porthos impatiently reposition his chin, as if trying to remind Malcolm that he was still there, waiting for food. Absently, he spooned the remainder of peanut butter on the last piece of pancake before passing it to the dog.  So much for not letting the dog win.  If people kept trying to have heart-to-hearts with him in the mess hall, maybe he’d just start eating in his quarters.

***

It wasn’t that the dog was troublesome; it was just that he seemed to have a one-track mind. Malcolm could appreciate that — when he got a mind to do something, he rarely let go until it was finished. But Porthos was giving him a run for his money.

On their walk that afternoon, there were not one , not two , but  _ twelve _ different spots that captured Porthos’ attention. No amount of stern commands, promises of peanut butter nor feigned excitement at a grate farther down the hall could move the dog. And clipping the seldom-used leash to the dog didn’t help, either. Malcolm would have had better luck pulling a forty-pounder cannon .

So, the head of security stood in the hall, hands clasped loosely behind him, as he waited for the dog to finish his investigation. He’d hoped this would have been enough to tire the dog out and keep him out of trouble while Malcolm worked on his security protocols...

It  _ had _ worked for a while, actually. The man had been finishing up his analysis of how the ship’s practices differed from recent best practices when he heard snuffling and crunching.

The captain had been very clear — half a cup of food in the morning, and half a cup in the evening. Porthos, like many beagles, snarfed down his meal the moment it hit the floor, so there shouldn’t be anything left for him to eat, except for the bag of kibble that was sitting in one of Malcolm’s lockers. Unless the hound had grown thumbs, there was no way he’d be able to get into there... except if it didn’t latch after Malcolm had retrieved a chew toy from the bag.

As he looked over at the source of the noise, he had to laugh. Porthos had managed to get his whole head into the bag of kibble, and was happily munching away. Malcolm scooped up the dog, who whined in protest as the food was shut in the locker — securely this time. The beagle rested his head on the lieutenant’s arm as the  brunet settled back  at his desk.

“Daft dog,” he mumbled, petting Porthos’ soft ears as he resumed reading.

At least dog sitting was interesting.


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to the absolutely lovely ltwillbush for their feedback and advice.

He was floating.  
He was stuck to that piece of the hull, speared through the leg like a goddamn human kebab, and he couldn’t get loose.  
And Archer was just floating there, as Malcolm drifted further and further away. He could see the captain’s mouth moving, couldn’t hear any sound, but he could make out the words: _“Ten seconds.”_  
Why wasn’t he doing anything? Malcolm thrashed against the plating, trying in vain to free himself as he watched the mine activate.  
He’d been ready to die, but this wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.  
The mine exploded, and —  
Malcolm woke up.  
For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was. As he got his bearings in the dark, he sat up slowly, raking his hands through his hair.  
It was just a dream, he told himself sternly. Better than the ones where he had to watch Trip die over and over again or where T’Pol, Hoshi and he got blown up or —  
His thoughts were interrupted by a cold nose on his arm, and a familiar weight jumping onto the bed. Porthos wriggled his face into the crook of Malcolm’s elbow, leaning against the man’s chest.  
Malcolm inhaled deeply, his hands unclenching from his hair and his shoulders softening as the terror drained from him. He focused on the feel of the fur under his hands, the sound of the dog sniffing softly, the reassuring weight against him, the smell of… corn chips? He sniffed his sweat-drenched shirt. Nope. Not him. Must be the dog.  
Porthos yawned, curling up beside the armory officer. Shivering slightly, Malcolm laid back down, contemplating whether he should kick the dog out of the bed. Just this once, he decided, feeling the warm weight pressed against his side. It couldn’t hurt just this once.  
Porthos’ rhythmic snores lulled him to sleep.  
***  
They’d received the coordinates of a repair station from the Tellarite freighter, and were on their way. They would arrive in 3 and a half days, according to T’Pol, though it’d be at least a week before the lieutenant could return to duty, Malcolm knew that Archer would be anxious to have Porthos back once he didn’t have to focus on repairs. He wouldn’t admit it, but the younger man was going to miss looking after the pup.  
In the past few days, Malcolm and Porthos had settled into a routine: Wake up and feed Porthos before visiting Phlox, then grab breakfast and take a walk around the ship. In the afternoons, it was a toss up between research and simply reading while the beagle napped or played with a chew toy. Or the pair went on more walks.  
However, he wouldn’t miss the way Porthos did his business: He could do without scooping up the poop and then having to take it to Phlox. Apparently, Archer had some sort of fake grass patch in his bathroom that drained the urine into the sewage system, but the solid waste was another matter. Phlox did … something with it, and Malcolm wasn’t sure he wanted to know exactly what.  
He also wouldn’t miss having to chase after the dog every 15 minutes when they “made their rounds,” wandering and chatting with crew members to keep up with the latest gossip. Even off-duty, Malcolm felt obligated to know what was happening on the ship, and it seemed that people were more likely to talk to the seemingly uptight Brit when the merry little hound was by his side.  
Still, Malcolm had no idea how Archer got Porthos to walk calmly beside him. Maybe he kept the dog sedated, he wondered that evening as he fixed himself a snack. He’d spent most of the afternoon chasing Porthos, and ended up missing dinner. Though used to skipping meals, he generally had something else to keep his mind off the gnawing pit in his stomach, like an imminent attack from an alien ship. A sharp yelp interrupted his musings.  
“What?”  
The dog whined.  
“I’ve been warned about you and cheese. No,” the man said, reaching above the dog to stow the box of crackers in his locker. “Especially not if you yell at me for it. That’s bad manners, you know.”  
Porthos stared at Malcolm.  
“Maybe you haven’t any. Sit,” Malcolm tried, wondering if Archer had trained the dog at all.  
The dog gave him a short howl.  
“Right, well, that won’t do,” the tactical officer muttered to himself. An untrained dog could be a security risk, he reasoned, if it ran into a restricted area or into a firefight.  
He clicked his tongue, and gave the dog a bit of cracker, then repeated the process a couple times. It only took a few tries before Porthos licked his lips at the noise, anticipating the food.  
Cracker in hand, and pocket well-stocked, Malcolm led the beagle into a corner, then brought the food over the dog’s head, clicking his tongue as he did so. Porthos backed up, bumping into the wall, and sat.  
“Good boy,” Malcolm praised, offering some more morsels. They practiced a couple more times before he introduced a command word — “Sit.” Porthos seemed to master that one fairly quickly. Maybe he already knew it.  
Wanting to be sure it wasn’t a fluke, Malcolm decided to try teaching “lay down” next. Porthos sniffed around, finding that all Malcolm had was crackers, and decided the perimeter of the room was more interesting.  
Fine. Cheese it would be.  
By the time the pair went to sleep, Porthos not only had a belly full of cheese, but a couple new tricks as well, and Malcolm felt accomplished.  
***  
Malcolm was taking Porthos and his bag back to the captain’s quarters when they ran into T’Pol. Porthos barked, bounding toward the Vulcan and jumping up on her in greeting, as he often did.  
“Porthos, sit,” Malcolm commanded as he caught up with the dog. The beagle reluctantly backed off T’Pol, planting his butt on the ground resolutely, and staring back at Malcolm.  
“Thank you, lieutenant,” T’Pol said, eyebrow raised. “I see you’ve been productive.”  
“Yes, well, we could hardly have him jumping up on the next alien delegate we have on the ship,” Malcolm replied, before giving Porthos a scratch behind the ears and releasing him from the command. “Plus, he’s smarter than he seems.”  
The man made the shape of a gun with his hand, pointing it at the dog. “Pew-pew.”  
Porthos flopped dramatically on his side, legs sticking out. After a couple moments, Malcolm produced a treat from his pocket. “Good dog!”  
He could have sworn there was a glint of amusement in the Vulcan’s eye as she walked away. Maybe he’d get her to smile yet, he thought as he pressed the door chime outside the captain’s quarters.  
“My pal!” Archer exclaimed as he opened the door, kneeling to hug the excited beagle, who threw himself into the captain’s arms. You’d have thought they hadn’t just seen each other at breakfast.  
Porthos wiggling in his arms, Archer moved from the doorway to allow the lieutenant into his room. “How’s the leg?”  
“Doing much better, sir. Thank you,” Malcolm said, setting the bag on the ground.  
“Glad to hear it! I’m sure you’re happy to have Porthos out of your hair now,” the captain replied as he set the dog down.  
“On the contrary, he was quite a good companion,” he replied, hesitating slightly. “I had some considerable success training him — basic commands, you know, in case he ever got loose when there was a threat on the ship. If you don’t mind, I’d like to continue working with him. He’s quite smart.”  
Archer laughed, nodding. “You’re welcome to visit Porthos any time, Mr. Reed. But he has been through obedience school. Barely passed, but he has some manners.”  
Malcolm wasn’t able to contain the look of surprise. “But he…”  
“Beagles are known to be stubborn and can be very creative when it comes to getting food,” Archer paused and fixed the armory officer with a serious stare. “How much cheese did you give him?”  
“Mostly crackers, sir. Maybe a couple ounces of cheese.” He couldn’t believe he’d been conned, and by a dog, no less.  
“Well, stick to these if you decide to train him some more,” Archer pulled out a bag of what looked like cereal pieces. “Otherwise, we may have to start jettisoning weapons components to make up for the extra weight.”  
“Yes, sir,” the younger man replied, grinning as he turned to leave.  
“Malcolm?”  
“Yes, sir?”  
“Thank you.”  
“My pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind words and feedback on this goofy little bit of self-indulgence! <3


End file.
